F-ck this sh-t
by InNeedOfInspiration
Summary: Do you want to hear the most fucked-up story ever told? Then put your fat, nosey and psycho asses down on a chair, you have found just the one! My name is Jo, and this is my story. Chris Evans/OC
1. Waking up

**Author's note****: Hi! I couldn't get this story out of my head so I had to write it down. Hopefully, you will enjoy it. Please, leave a feedback, I need to know this story has readers in order to keep writing it. Press the review button! **

Chapter 1:

Do you want to hear the most fucked-up story ever told? Then put your fat, nosey and psycho asses down on a chair, you have found just the one!

My name is Jo, and this is my story. I don't expect you to believe every word that I will say, after all my opinion is often biased, my reactions almost always excessive, but you'll have to believe the main storyline at least; for it has turned my life fucking upside down.

First spoiler first, I swear a lot. Like _a lot_. Legend holds that _fuck_ was the very first word I ever said as a baby. My epitath will certainly be: "_Jo Williams. She swore like a sailor_", a carreer I would have brilliantly succeeded in but that had I missed out on. And that gives me another good reason to swear in frustration.

Speaking of carreer, I would describe mine as "null and void". I am a writer; or more like, I have tried to be a writer but failed miserably. I was nothing like Stephen King: I didn't have his pen and I sure didn't have his bank account. I did not even have the ideal background story. I wasn't from New York or San francisco, but from a little town in Michigan. My wikipedia page (if I would ever get one) would say:

_"Jo Williams, born, lived and died in the armpit of the USA (we will not even bother to name the town, you won't know it, and you don't want to know it, trust us)_

Ok, so this was the professional part of my life that already takes up a lot of my time to whine about. As for my lovelife...Joker! I really don't want to discuss it. There's no point in even trying. Don't even try. Hey, this is my story! I write it the way I want. All you're supposed to do is read with deep interest.

So it all started in April 2013. I was sprawled on my couch, feet on the coffee table, watching TV while eating jellybeans. Jack, my dog, was sleeping on my lap. Armed with my TV remote, I kept channel-hopping endlessly until the manicured bitch from ET appeared on my screen. "Take a look at the new Captain America: The Winter Soldier set pictures..." she exclaimed with her botoxed smile. I let out a scoff and pressed the button to zap, unsuccessfully. "Fucking batteries" I grumbled while shaking my TV remote to death. "You can see here Chris Evans filming in his all new Captain America costume alongside his costar Scarlett Johansson, who will be playing the Black Widow again...", the host continued. I didn't care much about the Marvel movies but I did have a slight problem with Chris Evans. Everything about him was annoying me, starting with his biceps. I had a horror of overbuilt guys, and clearly, this guy was the leader of the clique. If I had to choose between him and a guy with a paunch, I'd pick the guy with the paunch! Chris six-pack Evans certainly wouldn't get my money at the theater. "Tell us what you think..." the host concluded just when I had finished my genius trick of swapping the batteries to get them to work again. "Faaaaaake!" I hollered before zapping and drinking a sip of beer at the same time.

I spent the rest of the evening watching some ABC show. Last thing I remember was hearing the clock strike midnight then I made my way to the bedroom and nodded off.

I woke up the next morning, feeling extremely dizzy. I had a shitty headache, everything was spinning fast and that looked like all the symptoms of a glorious hangover.

I slowly pushed the duvet away and remained seated a few minutes on the edge of the bed. "Okay" I muttered "I'll never buy the cheap beer again".

The room was brighter than usual as I always liked to sleep in complete darkness and I quickly rushed to close the curtains. My retinas burned less and I made my way across the bedroom while rubbing my eyes with the palms of my hands.

As I walked by the opposite wall, I caught a glimpse of a silhouette. I startled and leaned my back against the nearest wall. "Who's there?" I cried with horror. Silence. "I can defend myself. I did 5 years of jujitsu, you know" I tried to say with the most confidence possible, then I cursed myself when I measured the enormity of my lie. Nobody does fucking jujitsu! I should have stuck with the basic boxing or judo line.

I waited several seconds to see if my intruder would swallow it. I thought about taking my phone and call 911 until I remembered I had left it on the couch in the living room. Hurrah, me.

"I just called 911!" I exclaimed. "They'll be here in a minute, they said there was a patroll right down the road". Enormous lie number 2. We had the smallest police brigade here, and they were always all gathered around a box of donuts at the police station.

Silence again. The guy was really good, I had to admit. As hard as I could focus, I could only hear the sound of my jerky breathing. Of all the intruders that might have stopped in Michigan, I had to get the fucking ninja one.

After a while, worrying about the fact my ninja would realize they still hadn't heard the siren of any patroll, I decided to take a peek. The intruder had coincidentally decided to do just the same at the exact moment. I gasped and jumped back though this time I had had a good visual. It was a woman with red hair. I let out a sigh of relief: alright, there was an intruder in my house, but this intruder wasn't after my vagina.

"I saw you" I said outloud. "You can come out, I won't hurt you with my jujitsu skills". I waited a long minute but didn't get any response. "Shit" I muttered to myself. I was not going to stand in the bedroom forever.

"Okay" I said "I am coming out". I took a deep breath and stood in the middle of the room. The woman was there, too. I couldn't see clearly because of the dark (and I blamed myself for drawing the curtains) but she was standing quietly, looking at me with big confusion. To be honest, she looked jus as frightened as I was; which didn't make sense at all.

"Hey" I started with a tone as friendly as possible when you have a conversation with a person who broke into your house while you were asleep. "What's your name?" I asked.

The woman didn't answer, she just remained standing. And then a detail I hadn't noticed before suddenly struck me. She was in her freaking nightwear! And not just my boring check pants with a hole on the side, but a silk satin and lace slip. The expensive kind. I looked in awe, mentally blocking my jaw from hitting the floor. This sight almost made me want to cry: why did an intruder have better nightwears than me? And then, another fact ate its way through my mind: had she spent the night in my appartment?

The situation was getting alarming, I had to act like an adult.

"Where have you bought your satin slip?" I asked. This was a way to make a friendly conversation _and _to get valuable information for upcoming shopping sessions.

The woman standing opposite but many feet away remained silent.

"Hey" I repeated, waving this time. She waved back. But there was something incredibly strange in it. She hadn't waved with a couple of seconds difference, but at the exact same moment. It was like she had read my mind and reproduced the gesture I was about to make.

I tried again and stuck my thumb up. She did the same. I put my thumb down and up and then back down, and she did it too. Okay, now that was getting freaky.

"How can you do this?" I exclaimed as I took a couple of steps forward. The female came forward at the same pace.

I took a deep breath and held my arm up, reaching forward. The female intruder did the same. I carefully walked up to her then halted just when our fingers were about to touch.

I widened my eyes in shock, dropped my hand and ran to the window. I frenetically opened the curtains, the room drowning in the light, and I rushed back to my initial place.

"The fuck?" I squealed as I looked at the red-headed woman standing opposite me with her hands on each side of her face with an open mouth.

"What happened to my face?!" I screamed as I desperately ran my hands all over the mirror that was in front of me. My palms violently hit it as if it would help to figure out the spooky thing which was currently happening to me.

I held a chunk of my hair up in front of me and looked at it, horrified. I was the freaking intruder. "Fuck this shit", I gasped. I had just spent ten entire minutes of my life trying to scare off then have a conversation with my own reflection!

Why was I even saying _my_? This wasn't me. I was not this red-headed...and pretty hot woman. I put my distress on pause to have a proper at the woman I could see on the mirror. She had big, green eyes, luscious pinky lips you would yearn to kiss, prominent cheekbones and a sexy hour-glass figure. I was into dicks, but damn that was a hot chick. Somehow, I had become this hot chick! My formal appearance wasn't too bad. I was pretty cute actually, but if I really had to spend the rest of my life in a new body, this one would definitely do. I took the satin slip off, then turned right and left in front of the mirror, slowly growing fond of my new clay, or shall I say, new car body.

When I finally stopped navel-gazing (both metaphorically and literally), an important detail struck me. This wasn't even my mirror in the first place! I turned and looked at the curtains; I had never seen them before in my whole life. I ran all around the bedroom, mentally noting down all the unknown furniture. When my list became too long to remember, or even comprehend, I decided to take it the other way around: mentally note down every familiar piece of furniture. This was simple: there wasn't any.

I ran to the wardrobe and took a look at the clothes. None of them belonged to me. They were well too feminine and chic for my liking. I gasped when I read the label on one of the blazers hanging before my eyes. Chanel. Scratch what I just said: this whole wardrobe was meant for me.

I ran out of the bedroom and all around the appartment like I was mental (or like a child playing around; choose your favourite simile). Turned out it wasn't really one, it was smaller than my appartment, but way more luxurious. I stood in the middle of the main room, pondering all the wave of new information. This wasn't my appartment; this wasn't even an appartment. It looked like...a hotel.

I was drowning in all those new facts. I needed to put it all down on paper. Writing was my only soothing therapy. Without it, I was a mess.

I took the notepad and the pen put next to the landline telephone.

_Number one: I am no longer a brunette, I have now copper hair._

And that was already a big new reality to swallow for itself.

_Number 2: I am in somebody else's body!_

I circled this line three times because that was the freaky part of it all.

_Number 3: I am no longer in my appartment; therefore, where the fuck am I?_

I ran to the nearest window.

_Trees. Blue sky. One sun. Evidence show I am still on Earth._

This was an important point to clear out. I had just woken up in a new body, the alien planet wasn't such an outstretched theory after all.

_Number 4: Who is going to feed Jack?!_

My heart squeezed when I thought I would never go back to him. I added some more exclamation marks.

_Number 5: If I am in somebody's body, where is my body? Is it being occupied or is it...just a corpse?_

A new terrifying theory jumped in my mind. Perharps I had died during the night and maybe this luxurious hotel room, the designer clothing and the hot body consisted of the afterlife. This was a more plausile theory than the alien abduction. I could totally cope with the fact that this could be heaven.But if I'm dead, it means I'll never go back home. I nervously bit my lip and circled point number 4.

I paced around the room. I had to confirm or deny this new theory. I stood in the middle of the room and pinched the skin on my forearm with all my strength. I let out a cream of pain.

_Number 5: If I am in somebody's body, where is my body? Is it being occupied or is it...just a corpse? I am not dead and it fucking hurt!_

_Back to point number 4._

I nervousy chewed on my pen.

_Number 6: Evidence show I have swapped bodies with somebody. (note to self: call CNN and the NASA once I have figured it all out). Question is: who am I?_

I looked up and saw my new reflection on the small mirror facing me. I put the notepat down on the table and walked up to it. The crisis I was deeply in a few minutes ago, before sorting everything out down on paper, had blurred my good memory for faces. Those big green eyes, those full lips...I knew that woman. Not personally, but I knew who she was. Actually, probably half of the world knew who she was. _She _had a wikipedia page.

A knock on the door made me jump in surprise. "Miss Johansson?" a female voice called.


	2. First Encounter

I alarmingly looked round, searching for God-knows-what, for this action had the sole goal to help me cope with the panic.

"Who's there?" I asked fidgeting. "It's Lindsay. May I come in?" the voice answered.

"Hmm...sure!". I looked down and remembered I was in my underwear. The bolt unlocked at the same moment I sprinted and jumped into the bedroom.

"I'll be here in a minute!" I exclaimed as I frenetically looked for a large sweater and some pajama bottom...or for the towelling robe that I grabbed in the bathroom. I quickly put it on, halted and took a big breath. This was the moment to discover whether I really had the appearance of Scarlett Johansson or if this was all a big dream I haden't woken up from yet (even though the pinch should have woken me up, right?).

I carefully stepped in the main room and looked at the young woman with big guilty eyes. She was about twenty-seven years old and pretty slim. She had very short blond hair, blue eyes, thin lips and features; dressed in very comfortable clothes, jeans, a tee-shirt and a denim jacket. She looked me up and down, quickly bit her bottom lip then put on a smile of circumstance.

"You're not ready, yet?" she said, making the choice to use a polite interrogative tone instead of passive-aggressive statement. "Today's filming has already begun but you are not expected on set until two hours, which gives us time to get to the filming location, have your hair and the make-up done in your trailer. When do you think you can be ready?"

I had a million questions rushing in my head right now, the first one being "Do you really see Scarlett Johansson in front of you, right now?" and the second one "who are you?".

I thought my head was going to go into another spinning session. This story was beyond crazy. A part of me had been hoping it was just my sanity that was jumping off a cliff, something that sounded far more credible and pleasant than the reality which was now punching me on the face repeatedly. "Miss Johansson?" the young woman called. I held my hand up to my pounding forehead. "Don't call me that" I murmured as being called by this name was the final uppercut.

She smiled at me: "Sorry. Scarlett. I forgot you had allowed me to call you by your first name." She paused then repeated again with a more confident tone. "When do you think you can be ready to go?"

I tried to visualize all my escape routes, there wasn't any. And this sudden reality made me suddenly feel claustrophobic. I needed to go out and breathe some fresh hair.

"When do you need me to be ready?" I answered. She winced a bit: "About twenty minutes", she attempted cautiously. I nodded. "Give me ten". She offered her earnest grin as I rushed into the bedroom.

Eight minutes later, we were in the car, on our way to the set. The driver was silently driving out of the hotel car park, while the young girl, Lindsay?, was on the backseat beside me.

I took Scarlett's mobile phone out of my pocket -or perharps should I say, my mobile phone- and looked at the screen. She had received several texts.

From a Romain- 0012: "Miss you"

And all the others were from a certain C.E.:

00:25 _"Don't forget your promise :)"_

06:17_ "Are you wearing your pink socks?"_

06:17 _"I am wearing my lumberjack boxers! :p"_

06:18 _"Just so you know, I washed them first"_

06:18 _"...or maybe not!"_

06:19 _":p :p :p"_

"What the...?" I mentally yelped. I didn't know who that "C.E" was but I already had a piece of advice for him: stop flooding! Without mentioning all those exclamation marks and emojis that smelled of "dork" in a ten-mile radius.

"Scarlett" Lindsay called. I took my eyes off of the screen phone and turned to her. "I assume you didn't have time to eat breakfast this morning. What shall I bring you?"

I shot her a look of pure amazement. "That's really sweet of you...Lindsay. But I don't want to be a nuisance". Seriously though, why was I going to ask this poor girl to go food shopping for me. I didn't even know who she was.

Unexpectedly, she stared at me like I had just bitch slapped her. "But I'm your assistant. If I don't bring you food, who else will?"

Those few words caused an epiphany in my head. "You're the assistant!" I wanted to cheer, not to specifically rejoice over her job but because I finally knew what she was around for.

"Alright!" I exclaimed with far more enthusiasm than necessary for such a random situation. "A sandwich, some orange juice and jellybeans will do". Why the jellybeans? Probably because there were the last memory from my former life I could hold onto. I had spent the last evening of my life as Jo eating jellybeans, and it sounded right to start my new life as Scarlett Johansson eating some more jellybeans.

We reached the set fifteen minutes later and passed the security gates when the first drama of the day happened. "I'm gonna go grab what you asked for in the nearest local shop. I'll meet you at the trailer later", Lindsay casually said. Casually to her, but to me, her words were accompanied by a dramatic music and a clap of thunder. I felt vulnerable like a child who would have gotten lost in the supermarket. I scanned my surroundings and saw the white trailers parked at the back. I was greeted many times before I finally reached the area. Now the real task was waiting for me: find Scarlett's trailer. I progressively went from walking at a steady and confident pace to wandering about aimlessly when I came across the same trailer with the red balloon for the third time.

"Damn it" I growled as I hit the balloon with my knuckles.

"Hey, easy there" a male voice said with an amused voice "Let's not give Mackie a reason to wail and weep because you have burst his balloon".

I spun around to face my interlocutor. How could I possibly describe him? It was a mass of muscles with a side smirk that came in shaking my world...in the not positive sense of the idiom. Chris biceps Evans.

Speaking of biceps, they were also definitely present. So unmissable, they should always be mentioned independently in the end credits, right below his name; so heavy, they had the legal right to get their own birth certificate. Evans and his biceps walked up to me, both carefully wrapped in a tight v-neck t-shirt. His hair was blond at the front but from what I had heard yesterday on ET, this was a wig for the movie.

"So?" he asked "You haven't answered my texts"

Every piece of the puzzle got back together. C.E., of course. "You're the flooder" I said to myself.

"What?" Evans frowned. "Nothing" I answered impassively. "Did you see my texts?" he asked with a genuine excitement I could not understand.

"They were hard to miss" I mumbled.

Evans smiled smugly and leaned down, lifting his left leg up behind him, and reached down for the bottom of my jeans. He quickly pinched the fabric between his fingers and lifted it. I swiftly stepped away. He leaned back and stood up straight with a dramatic disappointed facial expression.

"You're not wearing the pink socks" he scolded.

He then smiled, turned around and leaned over a bit so that I had his bum under my eyes. He then lifted his t-shirt with one hand and pulled his pants down a little.

"Told you I would wear my lumberjack boxers!"

If stares could kill, he would have been lying on the floor at this exact second. Had I swapped bodies and gone through all the trauma of waking up with a new appearance just for the sake of looking at Chris Evans's ass? Hell to the no.

"What the fuck is that?" I blurted out with a straight face. Evans faced me again with a smile. "Remember yesterday we were talking about our lucky charms for when we start shooting a new movie? You said you had pink socks and I told you I had red and black checked boxers that I wore for the very first scene I played Cap..." he paused trying to catch in my eyes a hint of recollection.

"Still doesn't ring a bell" I said coldly, my arms folded over my chest.

Chris rolled his eyes. "Anyway, you did not believe I had kept those boxers as a souvenir and I didn't believe you were still wearing pink socks. You dared me to wear the boxers and I dared you to wear the socks".

I faked a deep yawn. "Well. That was enthralling from start to finish".

Evans laughed heartedly; somehow my sarcasm had not offended him, surprisingly. I hadn't expected him to be so…laid-back. That was challenging in a way, I guess. "Come on, that was your idea in the first place, remember?"

"Ok. Let's say you have until next week to wear the socks" he said in attempt to cheer me up, though I hadn't expressed even a smidge of disappointment. "Deal?" he said. I nodded. I smirked thinking of the blissful socks adventure I was about to begin. I started to mentally plan my socks schedule for the week, making sure I would wear, for every new day of the week, each and every shade of the damn color chart except pink. Evans nicely patted my shoulder in a bad timing that seemed like he was congratulating me on my new crafty plan.

"What are you doing in front of Mackie's trailer?" he asked.

I pointed at it with a frown "Why does..." I paused "...Mackie have a balloon? Did a niece or a young fan leave it behind?"

Evans smirked. "You wish! This balloon is his property, bought by himself, solely for himself".

I winked repeatedly, processing the answer. Where the hell I had landed exactly? Pink socks, red balloons, lumberjack socks...I was getting prepared to coexist among the freaks.

"I was actually looking for my trailer". Evans smiled. "Slow memory today", he commented before leading the way. I was starving, I was grumpy from the migraine and, mind you, the body swap crisis and all I needed was some time with myself. Yet Evans spent every second of the walk talking about people who were mere strangers to me like they were my best buddies: "Mackie", "Hemsworth", "Downey", "Renner", "Sam", "Russo". Who the hell was Russo?

We reached the trailer just when Lindsay came running to us with a plastic bag at the hand. We all got onto the trailer and I quickly emptied the grocery bag I had just been handed.

"Yum, jellybeans!" Evans exclaimed, snatching the packet. He ripped it open, "do you mind?" he asked, as he poured a big handful of candy into his palm before my horrified eyes. He played with my nerves some more as he tossed one jellybean up in the air and let it fall back down straight into his open mouth. He thanked me then left the trailer. I got up, rushed up to the door and watched him walk away while chewing my treat.

"Chris Evans" I muttered "I hate you".


	3. Just keep swimming

The best part of my hectic morning arrived when I spent nearly an hour getting pampered. My hair was straightened meticulously, and the make-up, though it was overall discreet, made Scarlett me look really pretty. I looked down at the filming schedule put on my table and saw the planning for today was called "roof scene".

I almost fell off my seat. As I processed I had no idea what "roof scene" scene referred to whatsoever, I was hit by the fact I didn't even know my lines...nor the plot as a matter of fact, but it wasn't the absolute priority at this second.

"Where's the script?" I demanded frantically, searching all around me, and quickly glancing at the clock. I had exactly ten minutes to learn all the lines I would have to say.

Lindsay rushed in with the precious remedy in her hands. I felt relief and glee engulf me and for a moment, I could have almost sworn the script was sparkling in fairy colors.

I looked at the cover:

_Captain America: The Winter soldier_

I couldn't help feeling a twinge in my ego. Obviously, I wasn't the hero of that movie. Don't ask me why I had that bitter thought when it was none of my concern only the night before. This wasn't my movie, this wasn't my life nor even my body but I already had the instinct to protect them and get what was best for them. I could have said "fuck it" and walked off the set and live my new life, or I could have decided to act like a diva, but that wouldn't have been right to Scarlett Johansson. She had fought for this, to get all this; and I couldn't just step in and ruin it all. Who knew if that body swap thing was even permanent. It might end tomorrow, next week or next year; it might never end at all, but still, I could never own it fully. Even after ten years, a part of me would still think of the eventuality of her taking her body back. And because of that possibility, I had to fight to keep it the way I had found it on the first day; or make it better. I couldn't help wondering whether Scarlett - if she was actually in my body right now-, felt the same way? Was she starting to treat it like hers already? Was she going to turn my life upside down (though it would be hard to get it messier than it already was) or follow the path I had taken?

I pushed all these thoughts aside and skimmed through the pages, trying to spot the word "roof". I froze when my eyes scanned it. There was no dialogue whatsoever, only the description of a pursuit between Captain America and the Winter Soldier. I turned the pages again until the word "roof" showed up again.

_Rogers, Romanoff, Sitwell on the roof of a high building_

I looked at the clock, I had barely five minutes left. This had to be the scene; I didn't have time to look up for another one. I turned the next couple of pages, looking for Scarlett's screen name and exclaimed a " hell yes!" of relief. Natasha had barely two little lines in that whole scene and Steve Rogers had easily ten more and I was ready to ignore the obvious sexism of it as long as it meant I would be able to deliver all my lines without getting busted. Fuck feminism.

The make-up artist and Lindsay looked at me with inquisitive eyes. I smiled embarrassingly at them through the mirror. "I've only got two lines...just two lines".

A few minutes later, I was confidently walking across the set to the studio, almost strutting around, but mostly holding back the urge to shout "I know my lines!" from the rooftops. Don't laugh at me. Who can honestly say they wouldn't take pride in stepping into a famous actor's life and managing to stand in their shoes without screwing it all up?

I repeated my line mentally over and over and with the same excitement and contentment as Dory in _Finding Nemo_. I started replaying the scene in the movie, "P. Sherman, 42 Wallaby Way, Sydney. Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming"; I mentally sang the lyrics .

"Hi" a guy standing on the side in comfortable bermudas exclaimed.

I waved at him. "Hey!" I answered mirroring the tone of his voice, "...whoever you are" I added in a low voice.

"Just keep swimming, swimming, swimming" I kept humming. My hectic heartbeat had magically returned to a more normal pace. When you think about those people who were unnecessarily taking antidepressants when they could have been singing Dory's song instead, what a waste.

I stepped onto the set with big eyes, scanning every detail of the setting, starting with the gigantic green screen that was hard to miss even if I had wanted to snub it.

The crew was getting prepared while several people were walking back and forth across the set. I gulped then mentally hummed again "Just keep swimming" as I sheepishly made my way over.

"Johansson!" somebody called. I turned and saw a hot, Black guy, waving at me while two members of crew seemed to be fixing something on his back. The man waved at me to come over. I started to elaborate a way of having a friendly conversation with him and get round the fact I had no idea who he was. Seeing by the prop he was having placed on his back and the two guys in charge of doing it, he was an actor. Could he be the Sitwell guy? I slightly furrowed my brows, skeptical. Could he be the Winter Soldier? I looked him up and down searching for a wintery reference. What the hell was that even supposed to mean? What makes a character a "winter soldier"?

"Getting my wings fixed then the Falcon will be unleashed!" he bragged to me with a grin.

I nodded and mentally thanked him. I opened the script on the page of which I had previously folded the corner and read the note: "the Falcon flies in".

Half of the way had been made, I knew who this guy played in the movie; now I needed to know what his real name was. There wasn't a very subtle way to obtain somebody's name, was it?

"So rumor has it you're lurking after my red balloon", he said. Red balloon! On the premise that there was only one actor on this loony set who had had the idea to knot a red balloon to their trailer (yeah, I know, that was a wobbly and daring statement to start from), it was very likely that this guy was...McKillen. McCain? No, I would have definitely remembered if it were this name. McColl? McCooey?

I let out a silent sigh of despair, giving up. McDude pointing his finger at me with a serious face and cold eyes. "Don't touch the balloon" he warned, making a slight pause between each word for dramatic effect. I shrugged. Whatever McRedBalloonFetish.

"I prefer blue balloons, anyway", I said mater-of-factly. He smirked. "That oozed jealousy".

I slightly tilted my head and smiled. The guy wasn't so bad; and I could use a work buddy. He had the humor...and he had the intel I needed.

"So" I started as I stepped up next to him and rested my forearm on his shoulder, "where's the boss?". First thing I had to know as an actor was the face of the director I was going to work with.

My brand new BFF puffed. "That was a good one" he conceded "They really share the same brain. Can you believe yesterday they both told me the same joke only three minutes apart? Literally, the first one walked off and the other one showed up and said: 'Hey, wanna hear a good one?' And trust me, it's hard to laugh twice at the same joke in a three-minute slot"

I nibbled my bottom lip: this seriously lacked valuable names. Just my luck. At least, I knew they were two directors on that set, and based on how everybody seemed keen to joke on their likeness, it wasn't far-stretched to assume they were brothers.

That was little information but I was slightly less clueless than a few minutes before.

"Wings fixed" one of the assistants said. McBFF nodded, "Be prepared for the Falcon!" he roared to me before majestically flying away to higher skies under the eyes of the admirative audience. No, just kidding, he nicely made his way to the other side of the set on foot.

I focused on my initial mission again. I looked behind the camera hoping to catch a glimpse of two guys wearing caps with the words "Director" written on them in capital letters. Sadly, that was not how the cinema industry worked. I looked over the cameras and my eyes widened; no, instead of caps, they had awesome chairs with every cast member's name written on them! How could I forget this detail?

I swiftly walked across the set, almost flying (take that, Falcon) and admired the chairs, less for their symbol than the precious help they were about to offer me. The smile on my face suddenly disappeared as I reached the chairs.

"Nooo!" I cried in frustration as I read the names written on the chairs: _Steve Rogers_, _Natasha Romanoff_, _Sam Wilson_. What kind of studio had the idea to use the names of the movie characters instead of the actors'? I didn't know whether to think it was brilliant or extremely dumb. In other circumstances, I would have found it awesome; but today, Gosh that sucked! How was I going to go fishing for information, now? And I was even more confused now. And who the hell was that Sam Wilson character?

"That's almost brainwashing, don't you think?" a familiar male voice said. I turned to face the guy who would be sitting on the Steve Rogers chair: the jellybeans butcher.

"Tell me about it" I grumbled. I looked up and found him smiling at him.

I dropped the script on my chair in surrender. All I had to was was hope that Marvel never plays some kind of "Give the directors' name or you're fired" surprise game.

I walked up to the center of the set and stood in the middle of what was supposedly a building roof, though it was nothing more than the replica of a ground, a backdoor leading to a wall and of course the green screen. A crew member, whom I totally ignore the job position, showed us how my character would kick the guy playing Sitwell off the edge to make him fall twenty impressive inches below. The crew member (I think he was a choreographer or something close) made me practice my face kick first "one last time" though it was whole new for me, then several times until I got the trick. He then looked at me as if he were asking all the gods how he had ended up with an incompetent unable to perform a kick she had been practicing for the last few weeks then walked away. Well, his face didn't' exactly say that, but that was definitely what I would have thought if I were in his shoes.

I stood up on the edge and looked down at the air mattress, -which I later found out was called a low fall air bag-, carefully placed on the real ground.

"Well" I said to myself with an unimpressed pout "that's disappointing". That was a bit like watching a myth falling down in front of me. Obviously I knew about special effects, CGI and actors not sacrificing for real for the greater good of the film industry (or Sean Bean wouldn't have had the carreer we know), but I certainly expected more than this.

Evans laughed outloud as if I had just told a great joke."I mean, come on, does the air bag really have to be that thick? He won't even break a toe even if he tried".

"Shall we kill Max to make you feel better?"

"Well he's supposed to be a villain after all, right?" I ironised with a smirk.

Evans slightly nodded, joining in the game. "Technically he's just a minion so throwing him off a real building might be considered bullying".

"A pretty drastic and permanent method of bullying" I chimed in.

"Oh well" he said with a shrug "he dies in the next scene, anyway".

My hand was over his mouth straight after he had voiced the words. "No spoilers!" I cried. Why had it been decided that Chris triceps Evans would be ruining my day solely using his mouth?

Evans playfully pushed my arm away. "You're weird, today" he chuckled. How could he even make such an assumption? It wasn't not like he really knew Scarlett, anyway. From what I had gathered, the filming had been going for a short period of time, so it was not like those two were super buddies.

"Everybody on set" a voice called. I looked towards the camera and saw two men standing behind, moving their hands around while talking.I finally knew what my bosses looked like. Now I just had to know their names.

"Are you ready?" Evans asked naturally. His assumption pinched my ego.

"Of course, I am. I was born ready!" I responded. 'Duh' was technically missing but it had definitely been there in spirit.

"Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming" I sang in my head.

Two miserable lines. That is all I had to say and I failed miserably. I had swum so fast and confidenlty I had violently hit the wreck of the Titanic upfront and made it sink a second time around.

"Oh, wait. What about that girl from accounting, Clara...?" I said. "Cut" said 'director with glasses'. I paused, clueless. "Her name is Laura", he rectified.

I apologized and we started again. "Oh, wait. What about that girl from accounting, Lara...?". "Laura" Evans whispered to me while pretending to rub his nose. "Laura" I repeated louder. "Cut", called 'director with glasses' again as annoyance started to slip out. He looked at me like he wanted to shoot me, and I didn't blame him for that. I was a burden. I would have jumped off that fake-ass roof if iI were positive I had even just the slightest chance of banging my empty head.

And then there was this retake when I said the good name and couldn't control the fist pump that followed as a natural reaction.

"Cut" 'director number two' exclaimed, "We caught that fist pump on camera". A long and desperate wail escaped my lips whilst Evans was laughing his ass off like there was no tomorrow.

After numerous takes piling up more and more inanities such as blurting out " , 42 Wallaby Way" aloud, the scene finally went smoothly:

"Oh, wait. What about that girl from accounting, Laura...?" I said while mentally blocking my fists or any other parts of my body.

"Lillian. Lip piercing, right?", Evans answered in character. I could have focused on the obvious smirk that was threatening to plaster all over his face at any moment but I was too busy keeping in mind to deliver my second line at a perfect timing.

"Yeah, she's cute", I finished.

"Cut", director with glasses exclaimed before adding after a sligh pause, "Scarlett, can you relax your facial muscles? Natasha is supposed to be really chill in this scene". Evans, who had been trying to muffle his snigger with a clenched fist over his mouth, let it all out and roared into laughter; his cheeks turning red, a hand holding his freaking left boob. It was official: my ego was sore and bruised, and Evans had largely contributed to thrashing it.

So I did it. I jumped.

"I can't take it anymore" I wailed before climbing up on the edge and taking the leap upwards, arms open like a sea star. I squashed on the air bag (way too soon for my liking) and with me, Scarlett's carreer. The fall was short but extremely cathartic. Evans and the crew member were gone for a new fit of laughter.

"Congrats, Scarlett" one of the two directors said. I lifted my head up the bag as my curiosity had just been piqued. "you have officially launched Cap 2 gag reel with this footage". Evans started clapping his hands, quickly followed by a general round of applause from the rest of the cast and crew. I sighed and dug my head back inside the air mattress. This certainly wasn't the kind of cheering I had imagined in my head earlier on.

The rest of the day sort of followed the pattern of the agitated morning. A miracle finally came down from the sky in a halo of blinding light and struck my lame ass allowing me to deliver my lines correctly, without stuttering, without quoting _Finding Nemo_, without frowning, without fist pumping. When director number 2, whose name is Joe Russo, gave the final cut, the crew spared me from any sarcastic comment or gesture. But I didn't. I slow clapped myself (because I had earned it) and walked out of the set.

I had barely had time to go grab my script and enjoy the thought of curling up soon in Scarlett's bed when Lindsay stepped in and informed me it would be preferable to go pratice some more at the gym and rehearse for the upcoming action scenes with my fight choreographer. I infered the guy who had helped me pratice my face kick earlier on had then bitched about it to my coach over the phone. What a snitch.

I got to the gym less than an hour later and the choreographer gave me shit until the evening. I was a mess; I was a wreck; and most importantly I was sweaty. Believe me, if you knew how my physical activity was usually swaying from _very low _to _nil _(swaying closer to _nil _than _very low _actually), you would have also put the statements in that order.

"What happened?" my coach Tony said "Two days ago, you knew all the fight routines perfectly"

I choked for air then stood straight up. "I swapped bodies with a lazy slop" I smiled. Tony puffed and made me start over.

When I reached the hotel, I was sore but proud. My kicks were still weak but I knew most of my fight choreographies. After two or three more intensive sessions like this one, I would be alright; and I was quoting Tony here. I took a long bath and even praticed some moves in the tub. This was growing on me; I didn't know what the final result would look like, but the fight routine itself was really badass. Plus, it seemed like Scarlett's body was taking on old habits. I didn't know how to give a side kick for example, but as soon as I learned how, my leg easily followed.

It was almost 9 p.m when I curled up into the sofa and grabbed the filming schedule and my script. A knck on the door disrupted my homework session. I lazily got up, whined in the process when some of my sore muscles ached, and walked up to the door.

I opened the door and found this annoyingly smug smirk put on a mass of muscles standing in front of me. My eyes bulged in some kind of natural allergic reaction and I slammed the door shut at once in another kind of natural allergic reaction. It will serve me right; mom had always told me not to open the door until I knew who was behind.

"Come on!" Evans exclaimed amusingly from the hotel corridor "Open the door".

"I'm not in. You just saw the latest Apple hologram version of their voicemail. Leave a message."

"You took the line from _The Avengers_?" he exclaimed with an outraged voice.

I frowned. "From what?" I asked numbly.

I heard him sigh then pause a few seconds.

"Are you mad because I laughed at you today on set?" he eventually asked.

"No shit, man!" I yelled back leaning against the door "What gave it away?".

"Seriously?" he mused aloud. "I take shit from you all the time, you can't blame me for enjoying it for once the tables were turned".

What the heck was he even talking about?

"We've been filming for hardly a week" I reminded him "Tone it down with the victimization crap".

Evans chuckled. "I didn't get the memo saying the slates had been wiped clean"

"What are you talking about?" I spat.

"Huh, hello?, your prank during _The Perfect Score_. I still have nightmares about it".

"The Perfect what?" I repeated. Evans obviously knew more stuff about Scarlett than I did; well probably anybody on that set knew more stuff about her than I did, but _he _seemed to have valuable information. "Wait a sec" I said, talking to the door, "I'm gonna google it".

I heard Evans voice a strong and genuine "what the fuck?" and I ran across the room to get Scarlett's phone and walk back to my initial position. I typed the search words on _Google _and clicked on the _imdb _page that was being suggested. _The Perfect Score _was a a 2004 movie starring Scarlett and Evans. Oops for the googling mention.

I browsed through the movie stills as I leaned against the door, making myself comfortable. I sniggered . "You looked like a munchkin!"

Evans cleared his throat with more noise than it was necessary. "Is that your payback for today?"

I ignored his question and started musing. He had known Scarlett for nine years; and apparently they were more than mere costars. And alas, that made him the best informer I could hope for. Does that mean I was ready to spend more time around him? Obviously, that was a no.

I cracked the door open and found my future tell-tale patiently waiting, his arm leaning on the doorframe. He eyed me inquisitively to know whether I would invite him in. I had to find a major turn-off. And fast.

"Don't even try to come in. I just farted" I warned. Evans combined two facial expressions: he first widened his eyes with his mouth slightly open, then rolled them at me and puffed. "And I don't want to go down for first degree murder just yet" I continued.

Honestly, I couldn't care less about the effect this little joke could have. This wasn't my reputation I was hypothetically tarnishing after all, but Scarlett's; and if that was going to erode whatever bond those two had, then it wasn't a relationship worth preserving in the first place. It wouldn't be my fault if an unfortunate gas story was strong enough to...blow it off.

"Why are you laughing?" Evans asked with an arched eyebrow, pulling me out of my digression.

I interrupted my silent giggling right away. "Nothing" I said "I was laughing at a pun".

Evans started to step forward dangerously. I took a firm and apparent grip of the knob. "Don't make me swing the door!" I warned.

He first laughed at my unexpected threat then eyed me thoroughly before putting the back of his hand on my forehead. "Are you sure you're alright?", he asked without the hint of a joke, much more in a brotherly voice. He looked right into my eye, like he saw something beyond it, much further. "You seem...different". The intensity of his stare gave me the impression he had been the very first person on this crazy day to have actually looked through Scarlett and perceived my shadow. It made me feel exposed.

I looked away and took a step back. "I'm feeling sleepy" I said without lying. "I need some rest". He nodded quietly but slightly concerned. I gently closed the door and waited there a second. Maybe tomorrow, he would get the Scarlett he knew back.


	4. Researching

The next morning, I woke up with the pleasant feeling of numbness. For the first five seconds, my mind was quiet, peaceful. When I reached the fourth second, all the memories from the day before stormed back in: body swap, Johansson, Captain America shooting, Chris Evans (ugh), jumping off a barely two feet long building, training to death. I kept my eyes tightly shut and laughed. That had to be my most creative dream ever. Obviously, I couldn't have possibly swapped bodies with anybody, and certainly not with a movie actress. Now, all I needed to do was to prove it to my dubious mind. I jerked the upper half of my body up, raised my hands, and exclaimed "booh!" as I opened my eyes to face the familiar decoration of my bedroom. I saw the unfamiliar decoration of the hotel room instead.

I let out a groan of frustration and fell back on the mattress. "Whyyyyy?" I cried out for two good minutes as I buried my face in the oh so annoyingly enjoyable luxury fibre pillow.

When I finally processed and sort of accepted the obvious truth, I turned and grabbed the notepad I had put on my bedside cabinet for the case I wouldn't wake up from an elaborate dream.

_Point number 8: Fuck, cock, balls! It wasn't an elaborate dream! _

Followed by another thought:

_Point number 9: Note to self: call the reception and ask them where I can buy one of those fibre pillows for when I go back home_

I skimmed through my previous notes and read again the only new one I had added in the evening and underlined it, because, well, it was probably the most important one.

_Point number 7: I have decided to hate Chris Evans because he ate my jellybeans. This is a reminder to yourself if you dare to divert from that path, bitch._

"Hell, I won't", I muttered.

I took a look at the clock. I had one good hour before Lindsay would come and take me on set. I called the reception and asked for a breakfast. I then made my way to the bathroom, looked at my new reflection and silently stepped into the tub.

But the best moment of the morning happened when I got dressed. My outfit was pretty basic, nothing to squeal about; the underwear though was another story. Once I had put on jeans and a top, I opened the drawer to choose my socks. I smiled deviously. The pair of pink, old, socks had been put in evidence as a reminder. How cute. Scarlett Johansson hadn't lied: she did wear pink socks. But Evans would never see them. At least, not until I would be in this body. I looked at all the other pairs of socks rolled into balls. I put my hand over my eyes, held my arm up and my forefinger down and drew invisible circles above the open drawer. Then I froze and took the ball that was right under where my forefinger had stopped.

I put the hand covering my eyes down and looked at the pair of socks that had been just randomly picked. Fate had decided: today's socks would be gray.

I ate my breakfast while reading my lines. Today was a new day. I knew everything that needed to be known: I knew the names of the whole cast and their respective role in the movie; I knew the directors were called Anthony and Joe Russo; I knew McDude was actually called Anthony Mackie (and didn't have one single drop of Irish blood)and I kind of felt disappointed because McDude was a much better name; I knew when filming would finish and the different locations we would head to. God bless America, _imdb _and _Wikipedia_.

I put my script down on the table for a minute and grabbed the pen and my notepad instead.

_Point number 10: Remember to make a donation to imdb and wikipedia. _

Yeah, I knew a lot of things, now; but I would soon not remember much. Problem was, I had a pretty bad memory. Yesterday's circus show was a pretty solid proof of that statement. I had to think of a practical and easy way to recall at any moment the name of every member of cast and crew. I gently tapped the pen against my chin until an idea popped up.

I snapped my fingers in satisfaction and took Scarlett's phone. I browsed her call history and sent a text to Lindsay.

_Hey. I need sticky notes. Bring a pad with you, ok?_

I pouted and decided to send one more text that would soften the previous one.

_:) :D ;) 3_

I pressed SEND and wondered how I was supposed to treat this assistant without making her feel like a slave, but without sounding like a loony neither. Something told me I had failed on that last point. After how many emojis could we tragically slip from friendly to creepy?

And then I realized: the problem here wasn't just the number. A heart, really?

Another thing I had found out with the help of _Google _was that Evans wasn't a big, fat liar to my dismay. He and Scarlett had known each other for almost ten years and, much to my regret, they were pretty close. Jeez. I sighed thinking of the consequence their friendship would have on me. I could not take it.

I held the pen and added one more point.

_Point number 11: Crush, smash, squash Evans and Scarlett's friendship. _

I sniggered devilishly like any self-respecting movie villain would just for the sake of it (because it was pretty rare to get the opportunity to do it) then my conscience caught me again. That was a legitimate and good, -if not brilliant-, idea but we were three people in this relationship, and if there was one thing life had taught me, it was that minority was often right but always lost.

I sighed and crossed it out.

Lindsay arrived twenty minutes later with my sticky notes and an awkward rictus. Oh joy, my second text had made its effect but not the one I wanted.

We got in the car and drove to the set as I mentally elaborated my operation _Sticky notes can save a life_.

I curled up on the backseat using my thighs as a prop to write on my post-it notes.

"Lindsay?" I asked while meticulously filling in each piece of paper. She lifted her eyes off the planning she was reading with an inquisitive look. "Are you gonna be on set all day, today?".

"I have many things to sort out" she answered "unless you need me to go get something for you?".

I shook my head and shrugged. "No. But I'm gonna have to ask you to turn a blind eye and keep your lips sealed about this. Alright?"

"On what?". I put my pen down and looked at her grinning. "You'll soon figure it out".

Filming wouldn't start for me until the beginning of the afternoon, which was perfectly convenient.

I impatiently tapped my fingers against the table while the make-up artist was doing her job. I felt like the information I had been gathering the night before were already starting to slip away. I remembered less and less the face going with the name written below, which was why I had noted it with a short comment of each member. Some light and enjoyable words that would help me get acquainted with this new - and busy, entourage of mine.

As soon as she finished, I jumped out of my seat and ventured around the set. Operation _Sticky notes can save a live _was officially on.

I made my way to the first place I would not have any problem to find: Mackie's trailer.

Ten minutes later, I was still looking around. Was it a habit to move the trailers over night?

I heard a door swing and saw Mackie walking out of a random-looking white trailer.

"Where is your red ballon?" I asked as I hid my sticky notes behind my back.

He shrugged. "It burst. I found its deflated carcass hanging down the string."

I walked up to him and tapped his shoulder with the palm of my hand. "Aww, I'm sorry" I said pouting.

I sighed, "I told Evans he should better avoid punching into it but obviously he didn't listen". Mackie looked at me inquisitively like a detective on the edge of solving the most mysterious case of his carreer. "But please, let's keep that between us. I'd hate to get him into trouble", I said with an innocent smile.

"Chris? Have you seen him?" He turned his back at me to scan his surroundings and it was the moment I chose to detach the first post-it. "You can't possibly ask me to betray him" I protested but Mackie looked at me again just when I was about to reach up. "He's over there!" I exclaimed as I pointed at the opposite direction. Anthony's body immediately rotated towards it and I gently stuck the note on his back.

_Anthony Mackie - I believe I can fly_

"Well, gotta go!" I said one second after.

I made my way all around the set, discreetly sticking a piece of paper on all the people I had managed to identify. With the others, I followed my luck. As silly as that all thing was, it was a very good mnemonic and a stimulating exercise. I naturally greeted people I was walking past after reading their name on the sticky note.

After one hour, I had used all of my sticky notes except one that I had kept as my alibi. When the first notes started to be discovered and the first frowns to lay on some foreheads, I wrote a quick comment and clumsily stuck it on my back. I walked around the set feigning oblivion.

I suddenly caught a glimpse of Mackie, Evans and other actors talking while holding their respective neon-colored note. I inhaled as I prepared for an act they wouldn't forget.

"The hell?" I cried as I ripped the note of my back, and caught the attention of all the group in the process, "who is the asshole who did this?". I walked over to them and proudly waved my note as an explanation of my sudden outburst, and a proof of my innocence.

"You've also got a note?" Frank Grillo asked.

I nodded with my best curious look. "You all had one, too?"

"Yeah" Frank said "except Chris".

Anthony turned to look him up and down, "yeah, except you", he repeated suspiciously. The tone of his voice screamed accusing while Evans just stood there with his hands in his pockets.

"How come you didn't get one?" Frank asked. The answer was simple: I had deliberately left him out of it in my quest to avoid him; the fact he was now taking the blame for it was just the delicious icing on the cake.

All those suspicious eyes staring at him made him yield. "It's not me!" Evans swore while laughing.

"Nothing says more innocent than a fit of nervous laughter for a defense" I rubbed in.

"Come on!" Anthony added looking at him "This has your signature all over it".

He showed his 'I believe I can fly' note as evidence.

Grillo read his own, "Frank Grillo - Rocky 2.0".

"You know Albert, the lighting tech?" Maximiliano (can I just call him Max?) said "He had a note saying 'Albert- a bright guy lmao'. And I didn't add the 'lmao' part".

The whole group chuckled lightly.

"What does yours say?", Grillo asked me.

I pretended to have a look at it although the joke was graved in my head, always and forever.

"One Shade of Red Johansson, fiddle-dee-dee!" I read. "The person who wrote this has, I must say, terrific movie references" I started to gush "_Gone with the Wind _is my favourite movie of all time". I started to wonder if the Johanssons had called their daughter after the character. This was a theory I found really pleasant.

"Really?", Evans questioned, furrowing his brows, "I didn't know that."

He then burst into laughter as he took my post-it to have a look at it. I didn't know what felt the most offensive: the fact none of them were laughing at my notes, or the fact _he _found them funny.

"Now I wish I had a note too. I wonder what it would have been", he pondered outloud still looking at my post-it. Oh that I knew: a target drawn in red.

"Well", I said snatching the paper back, "We are clearly dealing with a desperate, goofy, borderline psychopathic attention-seeker."

"Oh yeah, definitely" Evans commented matter-of-factly "but that's not me."

"Yeah just like you're not the one who burst my balloon" Anthony shrugged.

Evans rolled his eyes. "Give me a break with that balloon. I told you it wasn't me."

"Everybody on set" a voice called.

Anthony kept squinting his eyes at him then made a 'watching you' gesture with two fingers before walking away.

I internally sighed in relief I had not been put in the firing line and headed for my trailer to work on my lines. Lindsay was sitting on the stairs enjoying a coffee.

"Scarlett", Evans called. I paused, inhaled then turned to face him.

"I thought we could continue working on our lines this morning", he said.

I tried not to look at him like I had no idea what he was talking about but apprently my eyes had failed me.

"Remember Joe and Anthony agreed we could add our personal touch to our dialogues?"

I nodded numbly.

"Are you free, now?" he asked with a smirk.

I cringed and itched the top of my head. "Now? I'm not sure. I think I 've got this...unfinished thing to finish, and hmm I-"

"You're free all morning" Lindsay so nicely reminded me. She got up and greeted Evans, or more like she greeted his biceps. I was positive, her eyes were glued on them when she smiled and said 'hi'.

"You have the trailer all for yourself. Lena is gone and won't be back until you start shooting."

"And what about you?" I asked hopefully while mentally noting somewhere that my make-up artist was called Lena.

Lindsay shook her head. "Don't worry about me. I can go somewhere else; I wouldn't want to disturb you while you to are working on your lines."

I shot mental bullets at her. "Aww, bless", I said with my sweetest voice.

Lindsay actually bought it and kindly smiled at me in a way that seemed to say: 'Don't thank me. I just deeply and truly enjoy fucking with you'.

I silently puffed and went inside the trailer while Evans waved goodbye before following me in.

I sat on a chair, took the first piece of my paper I found and wrote down the name of my make-up artist as a reminder. I had a feeling this brand new information would help the conversation flow more smoothly between us.

When I put the paper away, Evans was already seated watching me. He opened his script and rubbed his shoulder. "So what should we start with?"

"I don't know, you tell me". I shrugged, not (entirely) because I was trying to speak to him as little as possible, but because I hadn't read the script yet. Yeah, I hadn't; don't judge me. I had spent all the evening before gathering information about the cast and set, then when the intense training session took the best of me I just fell asleep before I had had time to start to read the script.

Evans complied with a nod then chuckled quietly.

"What's so funny?" I asked.

"It's just that...you've always been in control of everything; you have already thought through all the details before we even started discussing them. And now you just let me choose and seem to be ready to go with the flow. It's so unlike you."

It was the first time his words fully piqued my interest. "Are you saying I'm a control freak?"

Evans held his two hands in defense. "Don't put words in my mouth"

"I'm asking you", I corrected him, "not trying to start an argument". I tried to sound as nice as possible.

He grinned at me. "So, you're not mad at me anymore?"

Ok. I didn't mean to sound that nice. "Nah. I'm still mad".

He rolled his eyes at me and paused for a moment, picking his words carefully. "I don't know. I woud say you are more of a meticulous person than a control freak"

I listened to each of his words and processed the information they brought. I felt the need to know more about the person I had become and I realized Evans could be the one who could help me discover her. Interviews would only show me the public persona, Johansson; but he would introduce me to Scarlett. To summarize it: he would be my tool.

"Evans!" I suddenly erupted.

"Johansson" he answered coolly while turning a page on his script.

"Let's play a game" I said.

He paused and looked up at me arching an eyebrow. "You mean play a game casually without altering the fact whatsoever that you are still mad at me?".

I looked at him with new eyes, mesmerized eyes. This man could read my mind. "Exactly!" I cheered.

He laughed lightly and sighed, "Shoot."

"Okay it's a game to test if we really know each other. We're both gonna say one word each that would describe the other best"

Evans nodded with an unenthusiastic pout. He probably thought the game was crap and I totally gave him that, but it was also the only efficient and fast way I had found to collect as much information about Scarlett as possible.

Though, it could get even more efficient and fast.

"So what about we say _you _give two words because you still have to make it up to me, and you add one more word because this game was my idea in the first place, alright?"

"So basically you just want to hear me compliment you?", he smirked.

I looked at him in silence. He surrendered with a wave. "Fine", he said.

"Obviously you start", I chimed in.

"Obviously", he repeated. I closed my script and looked at him closely. It was actually the first time I was taking the time to dwell on his features. Blue eyes, a straight-edged nose, straight white teeth, full pink lips and a strong jaw line. Yeah, I guess he could have looked decent if he wasn't such a pain in the neck. Under all these harmonious features was hidden an unstoppable jellybean ogre.

Evans captured his bottom lip between his thumb and his forefinger, thinking longly not because he couldn't find anything nice to say, but because he wanted to be accurate. "You're funny, meticulous and...what the heck are you doing?"

"Hmm?", I looked up at him. "Are you taking notes?", he snorted.

I hid the paper I was writing on with my forearm. "I might be", I retorted, "What are you gonna do about it, anyway? Sue me?". I pointed my pen at him, "Carry on."

"And..." he trailed off "...humble? But now I'm not so sure anymore."

I clicked my tongue. "I could tell you it's research but you wouldn't believe me, anyway"

"You're right", he said, "I don't believe you".

A long silence followed. "Yeah, right", I remembered. I looked him up and down. What nice thing did I have to say about him? I found one.

"Nice shoes. Your turn."

Evans blinked a few times but kept his comment for himself, which I sort of appreciated because I didn't have neither the will nor the patience to deal with his shit right now...nor ever.

"Sensible and resourceful, but also dorky" he continued.

I put the pen down and looked at him again. Oh crap, I had already run short of compliments. I would have gladly gotten rid of the chore by mentioning his shirt, but truth was I wasn't a fan of it. Steve Rogers didn't exactly have the best fasion sense in the world. My eyes reached his face and I had an epiphany. I could not believe I had missed that detail.

"You clean shave pretty well"

Evans burst into laughter. "Whoa! You're really good at finding shitty compliments"

I shook my pen at him. "I'm telling you: this won't count as a compliment."

"Risk-taker, professional, inventive. And now, I want a real compliment", he warned.

I put my pen down and took a long breath in.

"Or I stop this game", he continued. "That's just plain cruel", I cried. "3.." he started. I felt a virtual drop of sweat run down my temple. Suddenly, another detail of his appearance struck me but..nah, that was way too nice. "2...1...".

"You've got amazing eyelashes!" I gave in. "Honestly, many girls would kill to get the same ones"

Evans stared at me, baffled. "And I'm off here!" he exclaimed as he got up.

"So touchy", I slurred while rolling my eyes. He turned a deaf ear and went towards the exit.

"You can't just walk out in the middle of a game. That's just plain rude!". Evans responded to my last attack with a snort.

"How am I going to finish my list, now?", I complained.

He halted at the door frame, turned and faced me. I watched him with furrowed bows as he put his forefinger right below his right eye and slowly slid it down his cheek with a pouty face. "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn" he dared to say then dashed off.


End file.
